And At The End
by Elektra3
Summary: An interior monologue/rant courtesy of everyone's favorite Dark Lord. Voldemort's thoughts as he faces Harry for the last time.


Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine. Never has been. Never will be. So there.

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You just don't get it, do you? After all these years of struggling against each other like some bizarre game of tag, one trying to defeat the other – you just don't get it, do you?

I can see you watching me now, eyes wary for what new trick the Dark Lord has up his sleeve now that he's lost his wand and his followers have all deserted him. Yes, I do have quite the reputation, don't I? Well, the joke's on you, Harry Potter. That's my last trick: that I don't have one. Funny, isn't it? Usually when the "evil Dark Lord" is on the brink of defeat he becomes all melodramatic and makes long speeches about how the hero will never win and then vanishes in a big puff of smoke and the hero goes off to get married or whatever it is that heroes do in their free time – I certainly wouldn't know anything about that – but I find that I don't care all that much. I know that I probably should care that my life's work is going up in proverbial smoke, but I don't. Isn't that funny? Yes, yes, hilarious. Just hysterical. Excuse me while I vomit. Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot that I don't have a digestive system anymore, so I can't vomit. Ah, well. I guess I'll just have to settle for being bored out of my mind while you get the courage together to lift the damn wand and put an end to me. And that's the final joke, I guess: Famous Harry Potter can't do what his enemy can do. What is virtuous is inferior, and vice-versa. I guess that's why I turned to the Dark more than any other reason. The Light is too unwieldy. Too many rules. Too many forms to fill out. I wonder if your Ministry will make you fill out a death certificate for me? That would be nice. That way I can haunt the bastards while I roast in Hell. Something to do besides scream in agony – oh, the pain, the pain, I can't bear it – God, that gets tedious after awhile. The screaming doesn't bother me – it's never bothered me – it's that everyone is so unoriginal. Screams of agony get to be so trite, you know. No, I doubt that Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, Everybody's All-Around Favorite Guy, will ever know that. And I pity you for it, in a way.

I wonder if they have blue skies in Hell.

Sometimes I wonder if you ever really understood why I wanted to kill you. Knowing Dumbledore, you probably never did. All that idiocy about a great destiny – it wasn't true, Harry. It wasn't true in the slightest. Oh, the fact that you were – are, I guess – Gryffindor's Heir certainly helped – it seemed like poetic justice at the time. And the fact that you had more power than anyone had any business having – yes, that may have contributed to it, too. And then there was that whole business with the Cake – well, that was definitely an enormous blunder on my part… not that I'd ever admit that to you out loud. Pathetic, isn't it? Here I am, at my hour of death, and all I can think of is to pour out my soul – I wonder if I still have one – to my mortal enemy; not even talking to the man – or boy, or young adult, or whatever – out loud.

Food for thought: Are you only a construction of my mind, if I feel that I can speak to you inside my head?

But getting back to the original topic – wait, did I even have an original topic? – in the end, I had only one reason why I wanted to kill you, why I went to so much trouble to murder first your parents and then you. It's not particularly deep or meaningful. It's not even a very good reason, but there you are. I tried to kill you because I could. No other reason.

Ah, you're raising the wand at last. You're about to say the words. Oh, come _on,_ Potter. Just say them. Repeat after me: "Avada Kedavra." It's not really all that complicated. Just say the damn spell and have done. Please, if you're going to kill someone, the least you can do is not keep the other person waiting. You're being dreadfully rude, you know. I may never forgive you.

But then again, you just don't get it, do you? You, perfect Harry Potter – you just don't get it, do you?

Finally. You've said it. It won't be long now. Ah, that's it. Everything is going fuzzy. Nice and fuzzy. I like nice and fuzzy.

Maybe I'll get to meet my mother.

No, wait. She probably wouldn't be in Hell.

Ah, well. At least I won't be cold anymore.


End file.
